


Pretty Boy

by ifinkufreaky



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: The Reader (female) is a Dane leader captured by Uhtred and brought before King Alfred for judgment. The king surprises everyone by offering her a deal: avoid the dungeon by working with Uhtred against a common enemy threatening the borders of Wessex. Of course, Uhtred of Bebbanburg is not the easiest company to keep. Will the Reader remain focused and strong, or will she succumb to the tempting smile of our favorite Dane?
Relationships: Uhtred of Bebbanburg/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 87





	Pretty Boy

Your camp for the journey’s first night is secluded, in a small ravine far enough from the road that your warriors are not likely to be noticed by any passers-by. You are not yet in Earl Alfheim’s territory, but even here it would be better not to be seen; anyone might carry tales of armed men, and wonder where they are going. You sit now around a modest fire with your most loyal men: Burki, Thurgild, and Sigurd. A small goatskin full of ale, courtesy of Thurgild’s provisions, is passing around the group before you settle in for the night.

Raucous laughs drift up to your ears. “Curse them for fools,” you hiss.

The disturbance is coming from another fire, a separate camp set up just about a hundred yards away. Uhtred’s men.

Burki turns and spits in their general direction. “I don’t like working with Saxons.”

“Working _for_ Saxons,” Thurgild corrects. “Most of the men he brought are as Dane as the rest of us. Funny how Alfred is getting so many of his enemies to do his bidding.”

You swallow a warm mouthful of ale, then pass the canteen along. “He gave us no choice,” you remind your crew. “And I’d much rather be smelling this cool night air than the stink of a Wessex dungeon.”

Sigurd tips the mouthpiece of the bag toward you in silent agreement before taking a drink.

A sour twist remains on Burki’s mouth. “Still, adds insult to injury to be partnered with the very man that tied you up and brought you in, don’t you think Y/N?”

You growl at the reminder. “Uhtred got lucky when he caught me, that was all. We’ll give him the slip just as soon as this promise is fulfilled. Then go somewhere far from the reach of Alfred and his hirelings.”

Sigurd finishes his lengthy swallow, then with a satisfied sigh and tosses the visibly lightened skin at Thurgild. “That’s the end of it.” He stands, ignoring the group’s groans of disappointment at such an early depletion of the ale. “I’m turning in. A lot of ground to cover tomorrow, before we can set to spying.”

Your other men stand too, with grunts of begrudging agreement. Only you remain seated, your mood blackened. You nod them off and scowl into the fire.

A moment later you whirl at the crunch of leaves to your right.

Firelight gleams off the fair face of Uhtred Ragnarsson, the traitor who now calls himself Uhtred of Bebbanburg. He tries a winsome grin as he approaches the seat beside you, so recently vacated by Sigurd.

“Watch it, pretty boy,” you say. Thurgild is still close enough to hear you, pausing on the way to his tent to look back. You wave him off and glare up at Uhtred. “What makes you think you are welcome by my fire?”

Uhtred tosses his twisted hair and sits down anyway. At least he still dresses as a Dane. “Since you called me pretty,” he smirks. He lifts a goatskin. “And because I have ale to share.”

You refuse to allow his sparkling eyes to soften your own scowl, but you reach out for the peace offering. He keeps a hold of it, sliding closer to you along the log, his expression playful and what some women might consider tempting. You huff and snatch the skin away from him.

The calculation in Uhtred’s eyes changes as he watches you drink and stare back at him flatly. He looks toward your warriors, disappearing into their tents. “Which one of them is your man?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as a better retort comes to mind. “They all are,” you deadpan, watching surprise make his cheeky confidence falter. “I sleep in Sigurd’s tent on Thor’s day, Burki’s on Freya’s day…” you trail off as Uhtred’s eyebrows climb. “You are surprised? What, do you not handle it this way with your men? Don’t tell me you all hump together, at the same time…” You scowl and give up the ruse as Uhtred’s brows crease in offense. “None of them is ‘my man,’ fool. I don’t need to share a bed with them to have their loyalty. They follow me because they respect me, as I am certain your men do too.”

Uhtred leans back, palms lifting. “I meant to imply no such thing.”

“You only wanted to know how I could possibly resist your charms, then.”

“Perhaps,” is all he says staring now into the fire. You definitely seem to have taken the wind out of his sails.

“We should make plans for how we will approach the fort tomorrow.”

*

Alone with Uhtred, scooting up a ridge on your bellies, you peer down at the fort to inspect its defenses. Apparently he, like you, would rather take the risk to see things for himself than try to piece together a plan from information reported by his men. Absently, you wonder how your two groups are getting along as they wait for their commanders to return.

A little checkpoint has been set up on the road below, and the guards change as you watch.

Uhtred leans closer than he needs to, making sure his voice won’t carry. His breath tickles your ear as he speaks with the barest rumble of vocalization. “Did you see the signal the man flashed as he approached?”

You made the same gesture with your hand. “They must not always know the faces of their replacements. We could use that.”

Uhtred seems likely to say something else, but you hear a crunching in the brush somewhere behind your position. It could be an animal, but better to be sure. Without wasting time on saying anything, you shove at Uhtred’s shoulder, rolling him under the cover of the bushes off to the right.

You wind up on top of him, pressed together from chest to knee as you share the tiny hiding space. His breath is warm on your cheek as you peer out from under obscuring twigs.

Uhtred chuckles, creating very interesting movements in the warm body beneath yours. “Y/N, if you wanted to roll around with me—”

You cut him off with a hiss and a glare. A dry branch snaps not too far away and Uhtred’s face goes serious too. He looks out toward the source of the sound and then neither of you move another muscle, other than the soft rise and fall of your chests, pressed together, breathing in sync as you listen.

Someone is stomping in your direction. You feel the flex of Uhtred’s pectoral muscle as he moves his arm carefully, quietly. A moment later he presses the hilt of a weapon into your hand.

The footfalls grow closer. Uhtred tries to signal something to you with his eyes, but you aren’t certain of his meaning. Only that he intends you to be ready to strike. You can see your opponent’s feet now, and they stop suspiciously near.

You hear the sound of steel clearing a scabbard. Uhtred’s arm whips up, and a stone clatters several paces away. He’s made a distraction, surely intending for you to roll out of the bushes and strike.

You launch yourself out from under the cover and make a sweep for the man’s legs. A single cry escapes his throat as he goes down, but you’re sure to silence him the instant his throat is within reach.

Uhtred remains in a crouch after crawling out behind you. He looks around warily, then flashes you a warm smile. “I knew you would make quick work of that.”

“I told you before, pretty boy, I’m better than you.” You wipe blood from the blade on the warrior’s coat and then toss Uhtred’s dagger back to him. “You only got lucky the day that you caught me.”

“I am beginning to believe it,” he answers, surprisingly humble. “I am glad that we are now on the same side.”

You force a small smile. _Don’t be so certain of that._ You kick at the body. “We’d better hide this and move on.”

*

Luck runs out as the day progresses. The next patrol that runs into you is dispatched too, but with much more effort, and you both take wounds in the process. That, and one of the horses spooks, so you are now left sharing a saddle as your remaining mount carries you both back to your hidden base. Still, Uhtred seems inexplicably cheerful. The music of laughter touches his voice as he speaks behind you. “Earl Alfheim will surely notice three of his patrolmen missing from his hall tonight.”

“So we’ve lost the element of surprise,” you grumble.

Uhtred’s arms squeeze once against your sides. He insisted he needed to lean against you for balance, holding on to the front of the saddle between your legs, but you suspect his wound is not actually that bad. “That is what he will think, yes. He will draw in his men, and lock his fort up tight, believing we made a mistake.”

“Didn’t we?”

You don’t have to turn to know that Uhtred is grinning. “Not necessarily.” His hair brushes your cheek, bringing with it the musky scent of a vigorous man. “He will retreat into his hole, expecting us to try to attack him there. Meanwhile, we will be stealing his cattle. Perhaps we’ll take the town, as well.”

You frown. “Do we have enough men to do that?”

“We don’t,” Uhtred says cheerfully. You feel like smacking the insufferable man. “Not to hold any of it. But if we annoy him enough, he will send his men out to take these things back, and in the streets of the town, or out driving cattle, each one of our warriors is worth three of his.”

“We barely took three of his today,” you remind him.

Uhtred waves his hand. The gesture is so close to your body that you are surprised with an involuntary thrill, a sudden wish that that hand had actually brushed up against you. “Only because we were trying to be quiet. They would be no match at all in open combat.”

“You plan to get lucky again, then.”

“Always.”

The rest of the ride back is excruciating, not because of the pain in your side, but because you keep expecting Uhtred to lay his hands on you and it never comes. His voice is sweet in your ear, his body warm and intriguing at your back, and the sway of the horse creates a friction of your haunches against his hips that you imagine has to be driving him mad. But not once do his hands creep to your thighs, nor do his lips brush along your neck, nor any of the other number of things you wait with baited breath for him to try on you. He had been so interested in flirting with you before. What had changed?

And so the ride is painful for you not physically, but in your soul. Because as Uhtred continues to not touch you, you are forced to realize how desperately you want him to. Working together today, with the respect he showed for your skill, and the ease with which you both took to coordinating in battle, it was as if you had danced together already. A glimpse that gave you confidence in how well your bodies would slide and fit together under the furs, as well…

You might have caught something in his eye just as you are dismounting, after returning to the camp. But his men are fussing over the injury in his leg, and Thurgild is ushering you off in the other direction so he can examine the gash across your stomach.

*

It’s nothing, really. A shallow strike, the bleeding easily stopped. But when Uhtred appears hours later with the offer of some magic ointment to soothe your wound, you don’t send him away. You beckon him closer, nestling back into your furs, and draw your tunic up and show him your bandage without a word.

There’s something heavy in his eyes as he kneels down beside you. You know how you must look, laying flat on your back with your trousers loose and belt-less for sleep, holding the hem of your tunic up just beneath your breasts. It’s hard not to flinch, to go rigid and ready for action, as this warrior who so recently hunted you down now looms over you. But it’s exciting, too. To expose your soft belly to him, to force yourself to remain completely vulnerable under his gaze.

There’s a sting as Uhtred removes the cloth bandaging your wound. You give no sign of the sensation other than holding your breath. He gives a satisfied nod at the state of your wound. “Not deep.”

“Not deep,” you agree. Thurgild only had to sew it together with a few stitches in the middle. You’ve had worse.

Uhtred opens his jar, scoops out a jellied paste with two fingertips. “This has a bite at first, but once it soaks in it will numb everything.”

“Good. That ache was starting to get annoying.”

He starts at one edge of your wound, working it in gently. The sting is immediate and your body twitches. Uhtred’s other hand comes down on your flank, steadying, soothing, and he makes a low humming sound under his breath. “Trust me.”

And you realize that you do. Somewhere during the wild engagement that got you this wound, Uhtred had earned your respect.

The fingers of his left hand continue to play over your skin, bared between hip and ribs, in silent distraction as he spreads the stinging ointment with his right. The edge of the wound he had started with is already sinking into blissful silence.

You arch your back just a little, not enough to disturb his work, only hoping to encourage that left hand. Uhtred’s calloused palm feels as good as you’d hoped, warm and strong as it conforms to your curves.

He finishes with the ointment, and wipes his right hand dry. He does not stop touching you with his left. You stare up at him from your pillow of furs, not saying anything, hoping the look in your eyes is enough. Your pride won’t let you admit out loud to this man what you want from him.

His thumb strokes your side once, twice more. He examines your face, his own expression unreadable, though his perfect lips are softly parted like they are readying for a kiss. Then he looks down at your belly, turns, and sets to work applying a fresh bandage.

He does not look back up at your face. But as you watch his eyelashes flutter, it feels that he is memorizing the sight of your curves under his hands. And when the bandaging is done, he does not rise, does not lift his hands from your body, does not utter a single word.

Uhtred leans in, long hair brushing against your flank, and presses a single kiss just below your navel. The sensation sends ripples through your entire being. The whiskers on his chin tickle your lower belly as he tips his face up to regard you with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “I can think of one other way to soothe your pain.” Cheeky fingers curl around the top of your trousers.

You groan a little at the way your body responds, a flash of heat stabbing through your core, but the look of triumph that passes across Uhtred’s face annoys you. “Humping seems likely to break open fresh wounds,” you point out. “Thurgild would have your head.”

“Not humping,” Uhtred responds with a grin. “We’ll save that until you have healed.” Then he starts drawing the fabric down.

He removes your trousers slowly, pausing to kiss each new inch of bared skin. Every press of his lips kills any protest trying to formulate itself in your mind. You will just have to trust that he’s up to something you won’t regret.

When he has your lower half completely bare, his lips do not cease their work, kissing your thighs soft and slow, melting the tension out of your legs with massaging hands. He settles his body between your knees, spreading you more and more open, until you feel the air against your cunt, wet and waiting.

His kisses travel in that direction, along your inner thighs, and you inhale slowly in anticipation. You had not expected Uhtred to be so generous a lover as this. But if he is this intent on proving why you should yield to him, you are wholly ready to lay back and enjoy it.

His finger slides along your slit, just before his tongue follows. He emits a soft growl as he presses your legs apart wider, almost impatiently, and then his hot mouth closes over the little bud of pleasure just above your opening.

You suck in air, fingers curling through the furs at your sides, as Uhtred takes you on the ride of your life. He wields his tongue even better than his blade, and you praise whatever woman must have taught this to him, so he has such skill to share with you now. You start to moan, desperate little sounds, as an answering pressure rises inside you; hot, liquid pleasure that feels likely to drown. And when Uhtred pushes two long fingers inside you, beneath his still-sucking mouth, you arch your back and choke off a scream.

His hand finds yours, fingers curling together, anchoring you as that pleasure explodes into something about to overwhelm your sanity. You feel no shame in sobbing his name as you climax, all pride vanished under this wicked tongue.

He licks you steadily as you shudder and unwind, holding your hand firmly, not relenting until you push him off and shut your knees against the sensitivity. Uhtred laughs and slides up to lay beside you, arm scooping in around your chest, mindful of your belly wound. The one you can’t feel at all anymore.

“I like the way you call my name,” he murmurs pridefully into your ear. He nips it playfully. “And surely your men must have heard that.”

You give him a lazy swat, already feeling too sleepy to engage him properly. “Surely, that was your plan all along.”

“Perhaps.”


End file.
